


The Kiss of the Serpent’s Curse

by elwinglyre



Series: Unspeakable Unions and Vicarious Pleasures [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel and Demon Sex, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Wing Kink, Wingfic, wingasms Yippeee!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-06 04:47:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Prompt: All these years as friends and lovers yet Aziraphale has never set eyes on Crowleys wings. He hides them. The Serpent's Curse not only damaged his legs to the point of chronic pain, it also rendered him flightless with broken and deformed wings. Crowley owes Aziraphale so much. He must reveal them. Schmoopy hurt/comfort ensues along with some hot touchy-feely wingasms.





	1. Chapter 1

"You have wings." 

Crowley nodded, but that was all. He never spoke of them. Not that day or any other. He only turned his head to the ground. 

That was long ago. Not long after the Garden. And despite all that they'd become to each other, Aziraphale had never seen them.

"You can show me," Aziraphale had said. 

Crowley declined. It was empty. Bereft. 

As they grew to know each other, Aziraphale mentioned the demon's wings from time to time. They'd became friends, after all, and Aziraphale thought that Crowley might feel safe enough. Yet, Crowley, never once spoke of them let alone revealed them.

Although fallen, Aziraphale knew that other fallen angels had dark wings, some like bats, others like ravens. He'd seen Beelzebub's and other demons' wings over the centuries, but most of all he remembered from The Rebellion. 

As time passed, Aziraphale knew something was very, very wrong. Crowley was not shy and never one to shy away from unpleasantness. He trusted Aziraphale. He knew that with out a doubt. He asked to bring him Holy Water. Although he declined to do so at first, he'd given it to him. 

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley felt ashamed of them. But as he grew closer to Crowley, he knew that wasn't the reason. 

It was after they'd become lovers, that Aziraphale gathered his nerve. 

"Your wings," he asked. "May I see them? I..." But the pain in the demon's face stopped the words in Aziraphale's mouth. 

Aziraphale never asked again. He'd seen that pain. He knew why. It was in Crowley's stiff gate—the way Crowley strutted to cover the pain in his legs. The curse. The serpent's curse: "On your belly will you go, and dust you will eat all the days of your life." 

He realized then why Crowley never talked about or mentioned his wings. He never spoke of the pain in his legs. He hated the thought, the memory. The pain of it all and the pity. Crowley wanted no pity. 

That was why Aziraphale hadn't spoke his wings. It was a sore subject. Or a soar subject depending on the way one looked at it. 

It broke Aziraphale's heart that although they'd made love so many times, this one thing, Crowley could not show him.

Crowley had shown him tenderness. Love. Yet he could not show Aziraphale his pain.

Aziraphale waited, and he would wait for Armegedon, for the end of all things, if that was what Crowley needed.

\----------------------

They'd climbed the fells together many times. It was a year ago that Crowley stood a top of Scafell Pike with the angel. Looking down upon Lake Head, Aziraphale always felt the urge to spread his wings and glide down from its peaks. He used to do just that. There were many mountains he soared down through the mist and clouds over the centuries.

But never with Crowley. 

"I know what you're thinking, angel," Crowley said. "How long has it been since you've opened your wings in front of me?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes. It had been after he realized it pained Crowley. His wings were reminders of what Crowley lost. He didn't want Crowley to feel that pain. 

"I asked to come here because we need to talk...I need to talk," Crowley said. His voice shook, and he shifted his weight uneasily. "You need to know, that's not what hurts." 

Aziraphale's heart almost stopped as Crowley placed his hand on the angel's back. 

"I want you to open them. I need you to open them," Crowley said. "Please. For me." 

The angel closed his eyes and bowed his head. He gasped as he unfurled them.

"I love them," Crowley whispered. "I love you. I hope you understand that I love all of you. The rebel, the angel, even the part of you that for some bizarre reason loves me. I don't understand why you do love me. I'm not lovable. Not at all."

"You're so wrong. You think you aren't kind, you think you aren't nice. I know you hate hearing me say it, but you are and more."

Crowley groaned.

"Deep inside I know it makes you happy when I say such things. I want you to be happy. Opening my wings, well, that made you sad. I don't like to see you sad,” Aziraphale said.

"You can't help what I feel. It shouldn't stop you from doing what you love."

Aziraphale gasped as Crowley's hand reached out to touch his wings. He closed his eyes as Crowley's long fingers danced through them, straightening and smoothing. 

  
"What I love is you," Aziraphale said. He opened his eyes and met Crowley's sharp gaze. "Nothing can stop me from loving you. Not even your wings."

"They're broken and mangled and..." Crowley's hands continued to fluff Aziraphales feathers. 

"Painful to open." Aziraphalen tentatively touched Crowley's back. 

"Yes," said Crowley. He flinched, but did pull away. "Although that's not why. They're ugly and useless."

"I don't need to see them," Aziraphale said, smoothing his fingers over Crowley's back. "You've told me, that's enough."

"But it's not enough! Don't you understand," Crowley said, stepping back. The wind whipped his hair, and the sun made it glow like fire. "I will never be enough. I am a demon and not even a proper demon! I'm an outcast. AND I CAN'T FLY." He gasped. "I can't...why do you think I love my Bentley so much? My wings. The car, my wings... BENT. Like. Me."

"You should have told me all this long ago," Aziraphale said, stepping toward him. "It's not right that you should feel this way. You aren't bent. Well...maybe a little, but I love it that you're bent. I don't want a proper demon. A proper demon wouldn't love me. If you haven't happened to notice, I'm not a proper angel."

"True. You're quite the rebel," Crowley chuckled. "That's why I was immediately taken with you. You let someone borrow your flaming sword." 

"So there! We're perfect for each other. And if you ever decide you want to show me your wings, I am here." Aziraphale moved closer, nose to nose to his demon. "Please...please, touch my wings."

Aziraphale sat on the highest rock at the top of Scafell Pike. While Crowley sat behind and preened his wings, he exhilarated in the panoramic view before him and the touch of Crowley's hands.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley was afraid.

As he stood next to Aziraphale on Holme Fen, the lowest point in all of Britain, Crowley thought it only fitting since they were at the highest point last year. He liked the juxtaposition of high and low. He needed to do this where the only place he could go from was up. 

He'd come to the decision. He had to show Aziraphale his wings. The damage done to them was nothing compared to the damage done to his relationship by keeping them hidden. It was akin to keeping a part of himself locked away from the one he loved. Even if it was the worst part of him, Aziraphale deserved to see the truth.

The sun smiled down on the Great Fenne. The sky painted a pristine backdrop to the trees. Branches danced and swayed to wind's song. Butterflies and bees kissed the grasses, and birds sang the delights of the day.

But Crowley was still afraid.

Sensing this, Aziraphale reached out and held his hand. He squeezed it once, twice. As Crowley's personal defender, the angel was the light; he was even the dark. Aziraphale was all to Crowley. He felt he was risking his existence to reveal this part of himself. 

In the end, if he didn't have Aziraphale, he had no one. He had nothing. He was nothing. 

Crowley's looked into the sky as the walked down a wide path. How could the angel possibly love that part of him? How could Aziraphale look upon his wings without pity? The bones healed wrong because he was wrong. It was a fact. They were gnarled, and the feathers grew in opposite directions just like him. Some feathers were black, some were white, some were deformed, some grew painfully back into his wing. Not good nor evil, just a hodgepodge. Some places no feathers grew at all. Bare like his soul. 

There was never another to nurture him, to preen him. No one but him. He lost all hope for the useless things. All they brought him was pain. 

He was a mess.

The pain in his legs was bearable. But his wings? The pain transcended the physical. Each breath he took, each waking moment, he felt them there. Wrong, broken, bent. 

A wild bird with a broken wing would never survive without help of a human. Even then, many get euthanized. For an angel or demon, broken wings were healed by their own kind. But Crowley was cursed. There was no healing, no help.

Only pain. Pain as he held them inside. Pain when he unfurled them. Pain when he thought of them. 

He struggled for so long whether or not he should show them to Aziraphale. He knew the angel would never judge him. He knew it didn't matter to Aziraphale what they looked like—or at least that was what Aziraphale told him and what the angel believed in his heart. But was that what would truly happen? Would the horror and pain of seeing them be too great?

They came to an open glen where Azirphale stopped them.

"We were in this very spot before! Do you remember? I believe it was some time during the Middle Ages," said Aziraphale. He bent down and picked a blade of grass and playfully tickled Crowley's nose. "That was before you loved me. Or was it?"

"I loved you then," admitted Crowley. "But I hadn't realized it."

Crowley stopped and bowed his head. Aziraphale flicked the blade of grass coquettishly down the middle of Crowley's back.

"Crowley?" His forehead furrowed and concern filled his face.

Crowley's jaw was clenched, his eyes squeezed shut, his body stiff except for his arms, which were wrapped tightly around him. On either side of the spot where Aziraphale had tickled Crowley's back, dark twisted wings began to emerge. The tortured appendages trembled. Crowley gasped and shook as they tumbled out and dropped limply to the ground.

Crowley fell to his knees in the grass. Aziraphale dropped beside him.

He hated this, but it was necessary. Aziraphale deserved this gesture. It had been thousands of years since he'd opened them. Instead of spreading out behind him, they dropped lifeless. He couldn't even do that.

Scarred, broken, crippled, and crushed, he was beyond the agony, beyond the despair. At least he had Azirphale; he made this tolerable. Although Crowley didn't like the pity in his face, that was his own problem, not Aziraphale's. 

The angel knelt on the ground next to him, his hands hovered just above his crumpled wings. Crowley's body convulsed in violent shudders. 

"I know they're sickening," Crowley said, teeth clenched.

"No, that's not why I haven't touched them. I don't want to hurt you." Aziraphale caught Crowley's eyes. "May I?"

Crowley gave a slow nod. 

With the softest touch, Aziraphale fingers brushed the bend, the wrist of his right wing. To Crowley's surprise, he felt comfort not pain from the gesture. That bones there had been pulled apart and mended poorly. His left wing was the one less damaged, but still mangled. At least his primary feathers on that wing were intact. His right wing, were misshapen, bent, and in some cases missing. 

No one had ever touched or preened them. After his fall, he'd neglected them. It was torment to do it. But Aziraphale's touch wasn't pain, nothing like it. It was a respite, a relief. The pain dulled. 

"Better?" Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley took a shaky breath. "Better," he admitted.

Aziraphale took his word as carte blanche to touch his wings. He continued up the fingertip feathers, carefully sorting and aligning best he could. Then Aziraphale moved to his secondary feathers. 

Deep moans, long repressed, rumbled from inside Crowley's chest, and he nodded for Aziraphale to continue. He was thirsty for the angel's touch. When Aziraphale quenched and smoothed feathers on the back-edge of his wing, Crowley sobbed out.

"I'm hurting you!" exclaimed Aziraphale. His hand flew way from Crowley's wing.

"No, please. You're not. It just...I'm a little overwhelmed is all."

"In that case, I'll be more careful." The angel renewed his efforts and began delicately preening the feathers on the underside of his wing. 

Crowley never knew Aziraphale's touch to his wings would affect him this profoundly. He felt aroused. No, he was aroused. 

His heart pounded to the thrums and caresses of Aziraphale's fingers. There was a rhythm to the ministrations: long and lazy, almost lascivious. His fingers had a wicked little movement as he stroked Crowley's feathers. A little pull and push. Crowley could literally feel the narrow muscles flex under the angel's velvet-thick palms. 

Crowley hummed his approval. He never thought anything good could come from his wings. He'd never felt anything but agony. Somehow Aziraphale had given them life. Yes, they were still mangled and ugly, but underneath the angel had awakened something left behind, something right, something real, something more than pain. 

And then Aziraphale kissed them. 

"Zira," he moaned. "Oh, Zira."

He kissed them again. From the tips to underneath and finally to where they met his back. He was aroused, yes. A thick warmth spread from his wings into his back straight through to his chest. Down it crept into his groin. Wave after wave of intoxicating heat. With each kiss and touch, Azirphale brought him closer. 

Crowley gasped out for joy, the energy building within him. The tingling moved from his wingtips to his toes to his cock. He began to shake, his cock pulsed.

"Are you alright?" concern filled Aziraphale's voice. 

"More than alright...I'm going to come."

"In that case, do you want me in your lap?"

"No, right there. Keep touching the under feathers. Yes. There!"

Crowley whimpered and relished in his loss of control. His body shook, his wings quivered. He'd never experienced this feeling before. Pulses of pleasure beat through him to his very core. He didn't know it was possible to feel this. 

He gasped and sputtered as he came. 

"I think you singed the ground beneath us," Aziraphale laughed. 

Crowley tried to catch his breath, but managed to smile back as him. He watched as the angel leaned around and hummed as he kissed Crowley's lips. 

The angel looked down at Crowley's soiled leather trousers and grinned. "I do hope you'll allow me to do this again. But not on the Great Fenne next time."

Crowley sat still unable to put together two words. One would have to do.

"Yes."

He leaned back and kissed Crowley's wingtips again. 

"Yes," Crowley repeated.

Aziraphale laughed, shuffling around in back of him. "That's the most agreeable you've been in three centuries." 

Helping Crowley fold his wings, Aziraphale cradled one at a time in his arms. The demon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled first one, then the other back inside himself. It did hurt, but the horrendous pain he'd once felt was in the distant past. 

Tears streamed down his face in absolute relief. He grabbed Aziraphale and pulled him close, resting his blond head on his chest. 

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you." 

"Oh, Crowley. You are welcome."

"Next time we groom together," Crowley whispered hopefully.

"I would love that." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I do intended to let everyone see them preening together…if that’s what people would like ;)


End file.
